


Cheering Charm (Because I'm Wishing januarywren A Happy Birthday)

by ReverseHipster (jaguaria)



Series: Wingardium Leviosa and Other Stories [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, IT (Movies - Muschietti), kinda... - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Babies, Bestiality, Biting, Breeding, Eggs, F/M, Forest Sex, Genderfluid Character, Kings & Queens, Lactation Kink, Murder, Pining, Plants, Tree Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22768207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaguaria/pseuds/ReverseHipster
Summary: Happy Birthday, januarywren!!!!This was just an idea that I've had for a really long time, and I could've easily stretched it out to a longer fic, but I didn't have the time to do so and so, here is what I've come up with. It isn't super polished, and I couldn't decide on anything concrete.Pennmione if you wish (I never say his name, so it could be any red-haired jokester that happens to look like Pennywise, idk?)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pennywise (IT), Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, if you squint
Series: Wingardium Leviosa and Other Stories [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1156871
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Cheering Charm (Because I'm Wishing januarywren A Happy Birthday)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [januarywren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/gifts).



> Again, Happy Birthday, januarywren!
> 
> You always make my day with your conversations and with your health being awful for so long, I wanted to write something for you, and it is really a combination of a few ideas. I hope something sparks your interest. 
> 
> It is more Tomione-centric, but there is some kinda Pennmione thrown in at the end.
> 
> I hope you like it!!!

The clouds wept down upon the forlorn kingdom with chilly tears, wetting every tear-stained face and wilting every flower that decorated the normally sunny streets. The procession was slow and shrouded as it shambled along the damp cobblestones. Soaked servants carried the royal seal on rain-splattered banners while guards marched alongside the carriage containing the recently deceased. Lanterns lit the way, held reverently underneath silk-woven umbrellas. Residents watched from their upper windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the distraught remaining family in the carriage behind the horse-drawn hearse. 

Church bells clanged in a death toll, reaching up to the highest rooms of the castle looming over the town. The maids stopped dusting, the butlers paused in their evening preparations, and the remaining guards dropped their heads. In the heart of the vacant royal wing, the last candle flickered once before dying out.

King Thomas II, like his father before him, had been loved by most. He’d been persuasive, charismatic, and decisive in his decrees. He mingled amongst his people, unafraid to stand in their shoes and make them feel like they could share their deepest secrets. He held fabulous parties, inviting the most high-ranked elite as well as those who could just barely afford half-decent dancing attire.

However, this “love” for the “commoners” was not shared by many of King Thomas’ court. Duke Actaeus Malfoy was one such member that was subtle in his dislike but often had to speak for the entire court in their “concern” for “His Highness’s well-being.” Marquis Black, Count Rosier, and Duke Lestrange, amongst the twenty-eight members of the court, were much more outspoken, their immense wealth making their tongues loose and their minds dull. The stern mix of alphas and betas often broached the topic of separating themselves from the masses to “ensure His Highness’s personal safety.” As he always did when they began to prattle on about the issue, the alpha king asserted his dominance and told them to focus on actual matters, like expanding their territory into the forests around the kingdom.

Even his own alpha son, Prince Thomas III, held an immense disdain for allowing the commoners to delve so far into the palace. He loathed seeing mud-stained shoes tapping on the intricately detailed ballroom floor and smearing themselves along the pristine carpeting in the entryway. Watching them invade  _ his _ castle made his very royal blood boil.

On the surface, Prince Thomas looked like a younger version of his father: short and dark wavy hair, a pale chiseled complexion, and a limber yet solid stature. However, the prince had a distinct aura about him that made even his servants shudder after standing in his presence long enough. “The Devil’s Child,” they called him when they thought he was no longer within earshot. He allowed the barb to fester, finding amusement in the phrase.

Where his father’s eyes were a rich sapphire blue, the prince’s eyes were dark navy pits, reminding others of the deepest depths of the sea belonging to the serpents and kraken. They were so shrouded and devoid of light that many mistook them for black, and yet, they churned like the tumultuous tides of the open sea, showing just a glimpse of the well-oiled cogs constantly turning in his mind.

His omegan mother, Queen Merope, was from the seaside-dwelling family of Gaunt. Her sultry voice was like a siren’s for those very few who had even heard it, and her beauty was otherworldly, albeit unconventional. She hid behind makeup and pretty dresses, concealing her strange, bulbous, fish-like eyes, bony frame, and long feet. Of course, the whole kingdom had been surprised when their then prince had returned from traveling abroad with such an odd woman on his arm and doting on her like he was everything to him, and there she stayed, quiet like a church mouse and clutching at him like a boa constrictor.

Before the prince had been born, rumors circulated that Merope came from a family of necromancers and witches who drew power from the rain and seas, taking on characteristics of the creatures that lived in the murky waters. Unfortunately, once her belly began to grow heavy with child, the rumors increased, wondering if the next heir to the throne would emerge from her as a monster, an amalgamation of a human and a serpent. To the surprise of no one, with each passing day of seeing nothing but a tiny copy of their king, the speculation was dropped entirely, leaving Queen Merope to her oddness.

_ Tom _ was quiet, just like his mother, only speaking enough to be courteous and formally aloof, his nose tucked within the pages of one of the thousands of books adorning the castle’s library. If that wasn’t enough, he liked to disappear, to hide himself away in his large study, or take his horse out for hours on end and make the entire staff worry when his designated guards couldn’t track him.

He had “friends,” per say, those who he confided bit and pieces of himself in exchange for information and elusive items. Many of the “twenty-eights’” heirs had pledged themselves to him in secret, waiting for their chance to usurp their fathers’ positions. They were his Knights, and he, their King.

To everyone who lived and worked within the castle’s grounds, the prince seemed like a caged hawk, waiting and wishing to spread his wings, but also willing to bide his time and take advantage of the luxuries that were given to him. At the same time, he seemed to be an oddly gentle alpha, never partaking in sparring or sport that the guards often invited him to join in. “Frivolous affairs,” he called them, striding away to the castle’s library with a collection of rolled-up maps underneath his arm.

Many thought he wished to return to the sea, to meet his mother’s long forgotten family that had been swept out of the court’s minds by the queen herself. Others thought he’d met a woman, or several, and was courting them secretly. After all, there were plenty around for the court’s enjoyment, and even a few of the heirs had partaken in, popping their first knots in preparation for securing their future mates.

Now, however, those women would make themselves scarce if they knew what was good for them. Tom had firmly yet politely turned one of them down just that morning while he’d been dressing for the short travel to the undertaker. She’d come at him with rouge-painted claws and messy hair, and he’d immediately called the guards to remove her from his rooms and throw her in the dungeon. He’d promised himself he’d return to punish her for her presumptuousness at a later date. Letting her fester in the dark, cold, and wet space seemed entertaining enough for the time being.

“Oh my sweet boy,” Merope sobbed into her handkerchief, clutching her son’s arm under her own and lurching forward until her upper half met her thighs.

“Be still, mother,” he reminded her gently, adjusting his high, dark collar, “We must remain strong for our people… it’s what he would have wanted.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” she blubbered quietly, sitting back up and sniffing as she tried to regain her composure.

Tom took his mother’s hysterics in stride, remaining stoic and rubbing her warmer hands in his cold ones. He watched her tears with a form of fascination, his own eyes remaining dry. Her eyes were a pretty stormy gray, like a thunderstorm had just rolled in and was churning up its clouds in a sorrowful rage. A small smirk stretched his lips slightly. His plan had worked so well.

It had been all too easy to brew a scentless, tasteless poison and slip it into his father’s evening tonic. The ingredients had been more difficult to find than any other he’d ever searched for in his potion making endeavors, but it had all been worth it. He’d slipped out in the dead of night, walking through the pitch-black secret passageways beneath the castle until he was able to clamor out of a hollow tree on the outskirts of the village surrounding the castle where it sat nestled into the side of a great mountain. He’d found the passage in his youth while running from one of the visiting omegan princesses who wished to embrace him.

Rather than creep stealthily into the village, he backtracked into the adjoining forest in search of what he required: a naga egg, water from a nymph’s pool, and a snakeroot plant crossbred with deadly nightshade. A multitude of fae rings had led him to the pool and he’d stepped forward with no hesitation, plunging his vial into the water and snatching it away before the bewildered nymph inhabiting the pool was able to finish the horrendous song she was trying to seduce him with. When he rolled his dark eyes at her, she gaped widely, flushed an angry red, and vanished with a pointed flip of her wet blonde hair.

He’d never understood why, but such creatures never affected him. Stories of nymphs and sirens seducing men to their deaths intrigued him, but he’d seen several of the former and only one of the latter in his travels abroad both with his father, and by himself.

The naga egg had been surprisingly easy to find, one even laying abandoned and clearly unhatched in an empty cave amongst the silvery red eggshells of its long-gone siblings. The family of nagas had evidently moved within the last week or so, leaving their likely dead child behind. It was cold and limp in his grasp, the elements beginning to turn the once life-bearing egg into a mushy, moldy tomb. It would do, for his purposes.

As it stood, the prince knew where to get the crossbred snake root and deadly nightshade, but getting it took some cunning, something he fortunately had in droves. A lone garden, just on the edge of the forest, grew a few sprigs of the white-and-purple-petaled plant. 

The wooden-fenced garden was a curious place, even under moonlight. Poisonous plants grew on some rows, and healing plants grew on others. There were a variety of crops near very rare plants as well. Tom wondered about the gardener’s strategies, why they would place carrots next to giant hogweed, or foxgloves next to lilacs. Not many would be able to tell the benign from the poisonous, and perhaps that was the point, to put off thieves from stealing the gardener’s crops. The prince admired the thought.

However, the real challenge was sneaking past the red-haired dog sleeping at the vine-wrapped gate. Breathing quietly, the prince crept close to the far wall, pressing his back against the tall oak draping its branches over the foxglove plants. With practiced maneuvers, he scaled the tree and waited within the concealing branches teeming with leaves. 

Looking back towards the gate, he noticed that the dog’s head was raised, its ears tilting back and forth, sensing that something was wrong. Tom silently cursed, hating that everything had gone so smoothly until now. He couldn’t jump into the garden, nor could he climb down the tree. The dog had to be asleep, just as it had been the first time he’d seen it laying against the garden’s entrance. It had been smaller then, a mere pup.

The door to the adjoining hut opened quietly and a figure clad in a black cloak stepped outside into the main aisle of plants with a straight path to the gate. They creeped forward silently, looking back to the house every now and then, as though they didn’t want to be noticed or followed. Tom had noticed, but he had previously scheduled plans, so he could not follow.

When the figure, a very  _ feminine _ figure, strode by the tree he was perched inside, the prince caught a whiff of the most intoxicating  _ omegan _ scent he’d ever smelled. It made his breath catch in his chest, his pupils widening and his breeches tightening considerably. He winced, subtly adjusting his position.  _ What is happening to me? _

The cloaked woman opened the gate and bent down to the dog, her hands scratching its head while it licked her face, making her tremor with suppressed giggles. Then, she stood up, whispered a command to the dog, and the two of them disappeared into the forest in the opposite direction he’d come from. Tom shook himself out of the trance the woman’s scent had put him in, climbing down from the tree and waltzing into the garden.

As he picked the required amount of the crossbred plant, he made a vow to investigate this place further, to understand the woman whose scent made him wish to pursue her, to hold her down and imprint himself inside her like some ultimate alpha male. He could order it from her, he was the prince after all, and he’d soon be the king thanks to her indirect assistance. Perhaps that was how he could reward her. He’d yet to court, let alone bed anyone, so maybe here was a place to start. Maybe he could then understand how his father mated his mother when she’d been living in poverty in one of the major port towns near the kingdom. Oh yes, he knew her family very well, especially after he slit their throats and rifled through their few belongings.

His alpha grandfather had a ring that called to him first and foremost, and then there was the locket depicting a serpent that his alpha uncle had worn. Both radiated an odd aura, a heavy, almost suffocating aura. Wearing them felt like drowning and he couldn’t get enough of the feeling, the feeling of being so close to death and yet avoiding it. It was powerful, seductive, and enlightening. 

When Tom had returned home, he laid prostrate in his bed, wearing the ring and locket. Raw energy coursed through his veins and he couldn’t help but rut against his sheets until he fell unconscious in his bliss, leaving behind an embarrassing sticky mess of his nocturnal emissions. The consequences of his lack of foresight in this matter led to at least half of the younger female maids paying a lot of extra attention to him, even following him around should he “need something.”

Now, more than two years later, Tom had been of age for nearly five months, making it the perfect time to take his rightful place on the throne without drawing any probable suspicion, or at least any that would draw attention to him. The court was eating out of his palm with his elitist attitude and the people were none the wiser, believing that he would be just like his father. Yes, the king’s death had been opportune in a multitude of ways, especially when he’d recently begun setting up possible matches for his son.

Tom coughed to stifle his laughter, wrapping his arm around his mother and she leaned on him, shaking with her silent tears. He truly did… care for her, even in her off moods. She taught him to swim when he was a pup, brought him to the sea and watched him play in the salty water. He’d never seen her so happy. It was curious, almost as much as the woman from a few nights previously.

Tom glanced out the carriage window and noticed that they’d passed the church, cemetery, and undertaker already. From the looks of it, they seemed to be leaving the village entirely.  _ Where are we going? _

“Mother,” Tom tapped her hand to get her attention. Her eyes were a dull seaweed green when she looked up at him through her limp dirty blonde curls, “Where are we going? We’ve just passed the undertaker, the cemetery, the church…”

Merope blinked at him, “Your father’s wishes were to be prepared by a  _ certain _ undertaker. He was quite adamant that he was prepared by Sir Granger himself.”

Tom was stunned. Sir Granger, from what he’d heard, was a healer, someone one would go to while they were  _ alive _ . He created potions to heal the ill, he conducted corporeal miracles, surgeries that all others would likely botch up. However, he was most known for his dental practices, not his undertaking, “I was of the impression that Sir Granger was a healer, not an undertaker.”

“Evidently not, as Sir Granger immediately agreed to obeying your father’s wishes.”

Tom shook his head, “But why, mother? I should think that father would have wanted to be buried by and with his people. What’s to happen with father’s body?”

Merope erupted into sobs at both her son’s agitation and the reminder of the corpse leading their way to Sir Granger’s abode and shop, “I don’t know, Tom! It was written in his will. Please don’t distress me so!”

Tom breathed through his nose a few times, calming himself down. He so hated not knowing things, “My apologies, mother. Forgive me for my outburst. It pains me to see you so upset.”

Before Merope could voice her reply, the carriage stopped and their red-haired page was rapidly yanking the door open. 

“Your Royal Highnesses... Sir Granger’s establishment,” the page formally announced, “Shall I prepare accomodations for—”

“No, Percival,” Merope raised her hand in a regal dismissal, taking her son’s advice, “A simple umbrella will do. I can take a little mud on my shoes, as can my son. There’s no need for the carpet or fanfare.”

Percival looked taken aback by the queen’s decision but quickly covered it by stepping aside and fetching a single black umbrella and holding it over the two royals. Tom gently took his mother’s arm in his own, beginning to walk towards the gate leading to the small fenced-in yard that laid between the street and the front door. A guard dashed in front of them to lead their way while a few more flanked them, all on high alert to protect their leaders if the need arose. The leading guard unlatched the gate and strode inside, striding confidently to the large wooden door and knocking on it loudly.

After a moment, the door flew open and an aging man in a long coat and blacksmith’s apron stood in the doorway, bowing properly and ushering everyone inside. His hair was trimmed and his goatee short. No blood coated his hands, and there was no trace of a potion material or ink on his sleeves. Simply put, Sir Granger had donned his best work clothes.

“Welcome, Your Royal Highnesses. It has been some time since I’ve been in your company and it is unfortunate that our reunion is under such circumstances, but such has been nature’s decree. It is truly an honor to have you here, and I will handle what I’ve been tasked to do with my utmost attention and devotion.” Sir Granger lamented sympathetically, taking Merope’s offered hand and clasped it within his own.

“Thank you... I suppose it has been some time since you cured everyone in the palace of that awful poison fever... A few years ago, I believe,” the queen nodded, smiling a bit at his genuine concern for her and her son, “Tom had been shorter than me back then…” she smiled a bit wider at the memory, letting go of Sir Granger’s hand.

“I’d never forget when I was knighted, Your Majesty,” he chuckled quietly, “and I am amazed to see how His Majesty has grown. I daresay he is even taller than I am now.”

The older man moved to shake Tom’s hand and the prince returned the gesture stiffly, looking the man over for any foul play. He’d remembered the poison fever that had infected many in the castle, including himself. It had been a bit of a botched assassination attempt from one of the rival kingdoms, but the matter of excecution had diluted the toxin, yet made it much more contagious. Then, the aging beta had been summoned and the sickness had vanished, almost unnaturally fast by the power of his healer potions. 

In fact, the entire ordeal had given him such an interest in brewing potions to begin with, especially poisons. He could only imagine how potent the antidote had been, how expensive the ingredients had been. There were very few ways for someone as... humble as Sir Granger, a man whose immense generosity had left him in a simple abode with a small workspace to practice his profession. Tom knew that the man could be the richest healer in the kingdom if he didn’t have such a big heart.

Tom moved to take a breath as he let go of the older man’s hand, but he caught the faint scent of something familiar and coughed in surprise. It took him a moment to remember where he’d first smelled the fragrance, but then he looked to the far window overlooking what he figured was the rest of the grounds behind the workshop and realized where he was.

Without even really thinking, Tom walked to the window, bypassing Sir Granger entirely without saying a word or sparing him a glance. What felt like hundreds of different colors met his dark blue eyes and he was intrigued by the sheer difference in coloration from the rainy day to the dark night he’d seen twice before. It was the garden,  _ Sir Granger’s Garden _ . No wonder he seemed to have the cure for every ailment, he had nearly every plant one could ever need.

“Ah! Well spotted, Your Majesty! That is where we grow our potions ingredients, and veg, of course,” the beta smiled proudly, clasping his hands together.

“We?” Tom turned to search Sir Granger’s dark whisky eyes, “I was under the impression that you lived alone.”

Sir Granger’s eyebrow jerked once, but Tom was quick to notice the flash of discomfort the question gave the older male, “His Majesty must have been misinformed. Since my mate has passed on, I only have my… son. He tends the garden and assists me in my work. In fact, he is probably out there now toiling away with his tomato plants—”

“I see,” Tom cut Sir Granger off, “I suppose he should be present if he is planning to assist you with my father’s body, yes? What exactly had he requested of you for his funeral arrangements?”

Sir Granger nodded solemnly, “I suppose I should fetch him, but I could also simply speak to him about it later… Just as well, I suppose. I’d hate to pull him away from his chores… As for His Majesty, The King’s request… He’d asked me to bury him underneath an apple tree so he will continue to serve the kingdom even in death. His body will nourish the tree and the tree will bear fruit at all times of the year if my son and I can manage the enchantment. I myself have no doubts that it can be done. His Majesty was a strong alpha, after all.

“It is indeed a noble manner of burial,” Tom nodded, “but I should like to know where exactly this apple tree is presently,”  _ so I may choose to poison it and further taint my father’s legacy. _

Sir Granger’s brow tightened once more, another flash of discomfort, “My son has yet to fetch the seeds that will be planted within His Majesty’s heart. It must be done during the night, you see. The exact location of his burial site will be up to you and Her Majesty, the Queen. He wished for a place that could be reached by anyone, ‘especially the hungry and desolate.’ Those were his exact words, Your Highnesses,” he bowed his head respectfully.

Merope stiffly nodded, tears beginning to fall once more, “I fear for his safety, Sir Granger. I fear that he will be dug up and desecrated if he is left outside the palace gates… Perhaps we could bury him in the palace gardens… They are still relatively public, but there are guards that can watch over him.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Sir Granger bowed, “He shall be prepared in two days. Tell your groundskeepers to dig a large hole where you wish to bury him—”

The back door swung open, revealing a young man, likely just a few years younger than Tom. His clothes were a mess and his curly brown hair was tucked underneath a large hat to block the sun. A dirt smudge covered the blush of one of his freckled cheeks. He was small, limber in frame with oddly feminine curves. Yet, the prince could see the boy’s pebbled nipples and small bulge through his clothes. If this male was instead a female, it would have been an impressive trick. 

That same intoxicating scent rolled off of him in waves, his panting making the heady smell spread faster. His pupils contracted, focusing solely on his gaping mouth and seeing a perfect set of teeth peeking through his plush pink lips.

“Father, I just saw—” the boy’s whisky eyes widened to a humorously extensive degree and then he was on the ground, still partially in the doorway as he bowed on one knee, “Welcome, Your Majesties! It is truly an honor to invite you into our shop—”

“You may rise…” Merope nodded at the boy with a small smile and looked to Sir Granger, who was making tiny gestures at his son, hinting at him to leave immediately, “Two days?”

“Two days,” Sir Granger promised, walking over to his son and practically shoving him back outside while the omegan boy seemed to be in a bit of a daze.

Tom shared the feeling, his legs trailing after the two. He didn’t hear his mother asking him what he was doing, nor did he notice how the older man was trying to put distance between them. Stepping on Sir Granger’s other side, he moved to grab the youth’s shoulder but was intercepted by two of his guards. They pulled him away and his vision went red as he began thrashing around, trying to get at the beautiful boy practically running out the door with a nervous look in his eyes.  _ Mine, mine, mine! _

He snarled lowly at Sir Granger, moving to claw at the older man’s face but the guards held him back. One of the guards raised a cloth filled with beta pheromones and pressed it to his face. Tom tried to shake it off, to not lose the scent of  _ his _ omega, but he was instead hauled towards the front door and away from the door he’d been trying to get to. He snarled again, trying to kick the guards’ legs out from under them.

“Tom! Tom!” Merope shrieked, “What has gotten into you?!” she turned to Sir Granger, “Forgive us, Sir Granger. Something has come over my son. Do you know what is happening to him?”

Sir Granger shook his head, closing the back door with a finality, “It is clear that he is in rut, a rare thing in these sorts of circumstances, but it does happen often enough. My... son is approaching his heat, and so his scent might be a bit stronger than usual… Others might have a strong reaction to some of my potions I am currently working on. With His Majesty’s death, I imagine that Tom is seeking to fill the alpha void by searching for a suitable mate to ascend the throne at his side. For this little outburst, I believe all will be well once you’ve returned to the palace…”

“Yes, of course,” Merope sighed, relieved, “Come along, Tom, let us return home…”

Sir Granger nodded rapidly and Tom glared at the man as the guards led him out of the house as though he were a misbehaving pup. Looking towards the window one last time, he caught a quick flash of curly brown hair before it was out of sight once more. The prince smirked, subtly adjusting the crown atop his head.

★★★

Sir Granger poured himself a pint of whisky once the royals had departed, leaving the corpse of their deceased king in his possession, “That prince of ours is really something, isn’t he?”

The curly-haired boy looked up from his gruesome work and made eye contact with his father, “Oh? How so?”

His knuckles tightened around the glass, “He could have mated you, tied you to him! With your ‘arrangement’... You know that is not something  _ he  _ would be happy with.  _ He _ ’d just as well bring a famine unto the kingdom if he is as vengeful as you say he is.”

“I know, father.  _ He _ reminds me each time we are together. It is why no one sees me as a female anymore. Male omegas are rare, taboo, even unappealing to some. You know this as well as I…”

“No matter what parts you have now, you are still my _omegan_ _daughter_ , Hermione.”

“I know, nothing has changed up here,” the boy tapped his temple with his finger, accidentally getting a bit of blood on the skin. He ignored the crimson blotch. His lover would probably appreciate it. He wiped his hand on his dark cloth apron and delved back into cutting into the King’s heart, “His Majesty was poisoned… by the prince.”

Sir Granger frowned, adjusting himself uncomfortably, “Did the King tell you that?”

Hermione nodded, “He just did, in both his blood and his soul… Traces of... naga embryo... snakeroot, and deadly nightshade… He likely used nymph water as a binder, but I cannot be sure.”

The beta grimaced as he watched his now son lean over the body to listen closer before leaning back up, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I’m, in a manner of speaking, mated to the forest so he’ll simply have to find someone else,” the boy spoke matter-of-factly, making his ‘arrangement’ seem anything but what it was, “I don’t much care if I’d be good for him. I do a lot of good as is.”

Sir Granger rolled his eyes, still not entirely sure if his daughter was merely tricking him or if she could in fact speak with the dead. She’d begun being able to do so soon after she started sneaking out at night, returning in the morning with a heavy belly and a bloody, almost vampiric if not for the multiple extra fang penetrations, mark on her neck. However, the real oddity was when she would then sit out in the garden, rocking back and forth with low keens and groans. She would rise after an hour, covering the hole she’d been hovering over and walking back inside, male once more until moonrise came around and the cycle would continue on a somewhat regular basis.

When strange exotic plants began to emerge from the recently covered holes, he confronted her about it. Hermione had been hesitant to speak on the matter at first, but had confessed that she’d met a powerful forest spirit that had given her the seeds for expensive potion ingredients in exchange for her devoted company. Still, something hadn’t seemed completely truthful in her explanation.

Sir Granger had ranted and raved at her for her foolishness and prostitution until she reminded him of how useful of an ally her  _ mating _ could bring to them. He could protect their home, ensure that their crops never grew sick with disease nor sparse with famine. Both of them would be cared for, and it certainly wasn’t like she didn’t love the spirit. He was kind and thoughtful, passionate where she’d been yearning for it. 

So, a lustful prince had no place in her life at the moment, and he likely never would.

“I will receive the apple seeds tonight, my liege. Don’t you worry.”

★★★

Tom felt more wound-up than he’d ever been. The carpet of his chambers had begun to show evidence of his ceaseless pacing by way of a firm groove in the fibrous strands. Somewhere in the castle, a clock chimed. He still hadn’t taken off his ebony processional robes.

The prince itched to see the Granger boy again, he  _ needed  _ to see him. His hands yearned to stroke his sun kissed skin, to hold his labor-weathered hands and run his nose along his wrists, scenting the youth’s blood for traces of his heat.  _ Heat _ … Images of the boy disrobing in his mind’s eye made him swell up in his breeches. 

His pert little nipples and omegan cocklet pebbling with gooseflesh, his soft brown curls laying splayed on Tom’s emerald sheets, his chapped pink lips asking to be wet by his tongue… The prince clenched his fists, storming over to the window overlooking the gardens. Red eyes greeted him in his reflection and he huffed quietly to himself, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths until the dangerous hue dissipated.

In the far corner of the small labyrinth of tall hedges, intricate statues, and exotic plants, a few groundsmen were digging a hole. Even through the rain that continued to pour, he could see Atonin, the foreign groundskeeper, surveying them and directing a few other men that were standing around to trim the hedges around where the tree would grow. Tom simmered at the sight, looking back at his locked door. Luckily, the king’s chambers didn’t have the same view. Instead, he would be able to see the forest, and Mount Peverell in the distance. Mount Salazar, where the castle rested on, was much smaller in comparison, but Tom’s ancestor wished to have his castle near the river, and so picked the smaller mountain to erect his elite fortress.

The prince sighed, striding to his writing desk and sitting on the waiting stool. He tapped his foot erratically, something he never did unless what was plaguing him had left him truly stumped. In this case, however, it was how his mind circled back to the Granger boy that irked him. Tom hated how weak he’d become in the last few hours, and the younger male had no clue.

He couldn’t be any younger than fifteen, even as small as he was. The smell of a fertile omega surrounded him, and yet he’d hardly given him any sign of reciprocation towards his assertiveness. _ Of course, _ he was still young and unsure. Sir Granger likely kept him at home and away from all the big bad alphas that strolled around the kingdom. Not that he blamed him, the prince would have pounced on his little bum the moment he presented. Merlin, he would have coerced his first heat out of him if he’d needed to.

Alas, Herman Granger, as Abraxas, one of his loyal informants, told him from outside his gilded cage, was still out of his reach. He wouldn’t come into his kingly titles and authority for at least another week, leaving his mother in charge until then. The prince could tell she was taking note of his behavior with Herman and taking a look for upper-class male omegas that he might take a fancy to. She was grossly mistaken, however. He only had eyes for one.

He could just picture it, the queen’s crown sitting daintily in the boy’s curls while his little rough hands stained with ink adjusted his regal gown. Tom made a mental note to himself to have some dresses made for Herman once he’d been claimed. The youth might complain about the lack of trousers and male plainclothes, but the prince had a feeling that he would look even more stunning while wearing more feminine attire. 

Tom shook his head, realizing that his mind was miles away from where he was at the present moment. Of course, he had to snag his little mate first.

A knock broke him out of his thoughts, and he turned around in his seat, “Enter,” he raised his voice, still keeping a calm tone.

Merope poked her head into the room, “Tom? Are you feeling alright?”

Tom nodded, the picture of innocence, “Of course, mother. I’m feeling much better now.”

The queen sighed, relieved and beckoned him forward, “Dinner is ready, and I’ve hired some entertainment for us this evening... A jester!”

Tom internally rolled his eyes at his mother’s antics, knowing that he was likely to grow bored with the jester, and having such “entertainment” would make him more antsy, if anything. But his mother still believed he was grieving, and he had an image to uphold in that regard.

“Very well, mother. We both could use a bit of cheering up,” Tom stood from his stool and strode to the door to follow the older woman out.

“My thoughts exactly!” Merope nodded eagerly, “Your earlier... outburst proves as such, among other things…”

“Other things?” Tom parroted stiffly, knowing where this was going.

“Oh,” Merope sighed sadly, wringing her hands, “If your father were here, he would inform you of the pleasures of the flesh—”

Tom blushed now, “Mother! I am eighteen years of age, and father did well to tell me of such things when I’d presented as an alpha nearly six years ago,” he walked faster, hoping to subconsciously run away from this conversation.

Merope looked at him sternly, widen her foot stance to match his quickening gait, “So then you understand that your earlier behavior means that you are fully ready to find a mate, and with no new betrothal in place, we must begin looking at once!”

“I’ve already told you, mother. I’m perfectly fine, and I intend to court when I please, just as father did with you,” Tom raised his nose in a haughty manner, throwing open the doors to the Great Hall and taking his usual place at the head table, the chair just left of the decorated king’s chair. He would revel in sitting in his father’s place in a few short days. To do so now would be in very bad taste, and would further paint him as guilty for killing his father. He was patient enough to wait. What he wasn’t patient for was the sixteen-year-old omega eating bread and soup with his humble father just a few miles south of the castle.

“It’s not that, Tom!” Merope huffed behind him, taking her usual seat as well, “I can already feel the Fade. I won’t be alive much longer, a year at most. You know that as much as I, and I want to make sure you are settled as King and have found a mate before my broken bond consumes me completely.”

Tom frowned, knowing that losing his mother would be rather difficult for him, yet not heartbreaking, “I see…” he lowered his voice as servants began bringing food out to them, and the royal taste-tester gave them the approval to eat, “I give you my word that I will begin searching once I become king, and I’ve half a mind to start with Sir Granger’s son.”

Percival coughed, interrupting their conversation, “Your Highnesses, Queen Merope and Prince Thomas III, I present this evening’s entertainment…” he bowed and scurried away to stand at the side of the table.

Tom didn’t remember the jester entering the room, nor did he ever catch the name that fell from Percival’s lips. He was tall, much taller than most. His costume was rather plain in comparison to most other jesters he'd seen since he was a pup clinging to his mother's skirts. There were still ruffles and bells, but they were few and muted. Red tassles accented his pale, colorless clothing, making him look more like a bloodied ghost rather than a proper jester. His red hair only added to the oddness, taking the place of a fool's hat and yet looking very similar. 

Red lips stretched widely in greeting, showing off teeth as yellow as the corn Tom was eating. They were large and blunt in the front, becoming longer and sharper in the back, but he was unsure due to the distance Tom held between him and the jester.

“Good Evening, Your Majesties,” the jester bowed lowly, lurching back up whilst holding a suddenly-existent mock scepter with a bright red orb on the top, “For my first trick…” Time seemed to slow, and after a while, it returned to normal, and the man was gone.

Just as the jester’s entrance, his performance was all a blur. He remembered chuckling at some inappropriate jokes about the late king and his mother scolding him, a few impressive juggling acts, and a few choice characteristics about the man himself.

He seemed… fake, like a master illusion where the true jester was simply hiding behind the Great Hall’s crimson drapes and tricking them into thinking that the apparition before them was anything but. At the same time, catching the other male’s eyes told him a very different story.

Amber was a very rare, yet not unheard of, eye color, and the towering alpha bore their weighted glare into him enough that the prince remembered even through the blurred memory of the performance. His red lips had arched tensely in a snarl, and the hall thought it was a part of the act. It certainly felt like it at the time, but the more Tom considered it, he came to the realization that it wasn’t true at all.

The jester didn’t  _ want _ to be there, but he’d  _ needed  _ to be there. Whether the strange alpha was after money, a ticket into the new regime as the court jester, or something else, Tom hadn’t the foggiest idea.

“Tom, I’m retiring for the evening… Would you be inclined to join me in my rooms? I could read to you like I did when you were just a little one,” Merope gushed quietly, taking her son’s hand as he led her around the high table and began moving to the door.

“Perhaps I should be the one reading to you,” Tom offered, “I have not yet grown weary of the day as you have, and it would give me something to do in this time of mourning.”

Merope smiled at him, her age showing in the slow development of crows’ feet around her large eyes and the greying of her light brown hair, “My sweet prince, how you dote on me…”

★★★

Hermione stood before her mirror, wearing nothing but a sheer white slip. Her warm chestnut curls hung just above her pebbled nipples, wavering slightly with her breathing. A sliver of cold air curled up her spine, making her shiver in the relatively barren room. She moaned, a wanton, eerily silent sound. 

Forbidden. What she was doing here, admiring herself, was not to be done by her, but by him. As much as she could say she was ensuring that she looked presentable, he would know the truth. He  _ always _ knew. 

A crow cawed loudly outside, breaking her stiff visage and spurring her into action. With bare feet, she crossed the room and donned a long black cloak, wrapping her exposed body in its comforting warmth. The spirit would warm her once he held her in his arms.

Sir Granger sat in his study, nursing another glass of whisky and likely reminiscing about Lady Jean, Hermione’s mother. His eye caught hers as she passed, her hand reaching for the back door. He ducked his head and she frowned sadly at the uncomfortable air that had slowly been strangling their relationship for the last year.

Hermione stepped into the cold night air, taking a deep breath and feeling the humid air on her tongue. She could almost taste the dew drops and newborn earth, a slate wiped clean. Her babies cooed and preened under such attentions, unfurling their leaves and blooming their petals for their doting mother. The omega pet them all as she passed, running her fingers along their vines and nuzzling her hanging blossoms, malevolent or benign.

Her pup perked up as she neared the tall metal gate, opening the heavy creaking door and stepping outside. Hermione bent down and kissed the top of his red-furred head, scratching his ears and letting him lick her cheek.

“Come, Roman… Papa wants to see you, little love…”

Roman yipped quietly, trotting alongside her as they reached the tree line. He sniffed the air, ducking his head and leading their way with his nose. Hermione smiled as she followed alongside him, lowering her hood under the cover of the canopy above them, “Good boy, take us to Papa…”

★★★

An old tree, deep in the forest, groaned lowly, sending every creature within a mile running. The spirit had returned, waiting for its priestess, or more specifically, her offering. It had been active during this particular day, something nearly unheard of with its kind. Everyone knew spirits prowled at night, looking for and preying on the weak. Hermione, however, wasn’t weak, nor was she selfish. He liked that about her, and he hoped she would have something special to ask of him tonight. There was a special kind of intimacy to their “special” enchantments.

He’d scented something rather odd that day, heard it so loudly and from his priestess’s abode no less. His young had lent him their vines and allowed him to manifest himself out of the forest. He watched the young, ignorant prince lunge for what was  _ his _ and try to steal his priestess away. Oh they would have words once she arrived.

Angered and intrigued, he sunk into one of the waiting guards and followed the raven-haired boy back to his despicably unearthly palace, wearing the hulking male like a suit. He stood outside the prince’s rooms, listening to his mundane thoughts and growing more and more irate when they ceaselessly circled back around to his mate. Vivid images of Hermione’s male body naked and writhing filled his mind and he could do nothing about it, not as he was and where he was. The guard he was inhabiting was beginning to swell with the decay of his possession. So, he reworked the corpse until it became a jester, a grand illusion to frighten the lustful alpha pup.

The little fool chuckled and nodded at his jokes and tricks, thinking himself above  _ him _ , above everyone. It burned his prideful, envious, gut. No, he was not envious, but he was spurned by most who followed the glorified deities of Merlin and Morgana. As a Great Old One, he loathed how much he’d fallen into obscurity, and yet, he was a destroyer that created, a spirit that was deceptively corporeal, a walking, unbreathing contradiction.

Now, he slithered out from underneath his tree, carrying two twin serpents on his arms. Their smooth red tails curled around his biceps while their greedy pudgy fingers gripped his shoulders. They whined at him, their ravenous little naga fangs itching to sink into something.

He flexed his arms and they chirped at him, matching his fanged toothed smile. They leaned into his warmth and he kissed their little rosy freckled cheeks. Their mother shone through their feral appearances and he purred.

“Your hunger shall soon be quenched my hatchlings…” the spirit crooned at his progeny, nuzzling their auburn curls and twirling the tips of their tails until they cooed back.

A twig snapped and leaves shook in their branches as a red-haired dog broke through the clearing, making the twin nagas hiss in their father’s arms, their beady yellow eyes narrowing.

“Hello, my pup,” the spirit knelt, letting the dog come forward and lick his father’s face, “Where is your dam? Hmm?”

Roman whined and wilted apologetically, darting back into the forest to retrieve Hermione who had been trailing behind him at a much slower clip due to her lack of night-vision. The spirit huffed a laugh, the sound cracking the bark of a nearby oak tree, as he took a seat on his godly throne carved into the middle of his tree. His altar laid bare before him, the smoothed stone shining in the moonlight as it stretched through the tall trees above them.

Hermione, when she finally arrived with Roman, knelt before his throne and disrobed, showing off her pure untouched skin. His mark would be the only mark if the girl did as she was told. Tonight he was extra observant, and he was more than satisfied with her lack of bruises or blemished on her skin. His grin was inhuman and feral as he stood, untangling their twins from his arms and passing them to her. They chirped happily, reaching for her as she cooed at them. Her breasts swung tantalizingly before them and they struck, latching onto her nipples and beginning to suck their daily meal from their mother.

“They bite, alpha…” she whined, shifting her thighs, “How much longer must I let them—”

The spirit grinned, petting Roman, who sat dutifully to the right of the throne and watched his mother feed his little brothers, “Soon, mate… I promise.”

Hermione wilted slightly, making little aborted movements with her hips. She looked up at him and blushed, “Their venom…”

The spirit smirked, striding to her and lifting her onto the large stone altar, “Do our young excite you, priestess? It would be very sinful of you to take pleasure in such a thing.”

“I don’t wish for them to pleasure me like some Greek gods. I am not incestuous!” Hermione cried out when one of her sons injected more venom into her heaving breasts, “P-please!”

The forest spirit laid her down and ran his fingers along her neck and wrists, the areas of her racing pulse and her scent glands. He brought both to his mouth and lapped at her excitement, until their sons detached themselves from her raw torn nubs. 

The two nagas clung to him again, trying to strangle his arms in their constricting grip. They hissed their laughter at him and he nuzzled their tiny ears, resting them on Roman’s back and the dog yipped happily, letting their tails wrap around his midsection.

“Take them to the pool across the glen,” he instructed his eldest son, “Let them swim, and perhaps they'll catch a fish or two.

The dog trotted off, his brothers chirping happily and clinging to his longer fur, leaving Hermione alone with the spirit of the forest.

★★★

Tom didn’t know how long he’d stood there, watching the woman that smelled like Herman Granger and looked like the woman from the other night. He watched her raise two little naga hatchlings to her breasts and let them suckle. Her naked body twitched at their stimulation and he almost groaned himself. Then, the large creature with bright amber eyes and yellowed teeth raised her in his shadowy arms and draped her across the stone altar in the middle of the small clearing.

In the light, he saw the creature for what it was: an alpha. It was pale with shadowy limbs and two sets of teeth, once in his mouth, and one along his torso from sternum to pelvis. A large head arched triumphantly over its gangly limbs with flower-like petals enveloping his neck in a sort of ruffled collar. Red hair and facial markings completed his appearance and Tom immediately remembered the blurry jester from earlier that evening.

To see  _ it _ here and now, as a creature rather than some homunculus bastardization of a human alpha rattled his mind, sending it spiraling in a way that made his triumph over his father seem paltry in its relevance. Stumbling upon this particular scene was bigger than anything he’d seen on his travels or in his books. He felt the godlike energy that neutralized his locket and ring, making them feel like nothing more than common jewelry. 

Then there was the omega, Herman, or whoever she really was. He wanted her too, because she too radiated with this energy, like she’d been touched and turned inside out by this devilishly celestial being. She would submit to him like she submitted to  _ it _ , just as an omega should.

He’d first planned to follow Herman into the woods around the garden after the youth snuck out the back door, just as she did a couple of nights ago. Then, he would’ve ambushed her and asserted himself over the young omega with a harsh mating bite and a heavy knot. During the slow period of tieing and insemination, he would’ve convinced her into returning the bite and accepting him as his mate. Now, all of that was entirely out the window, but his mind was nothing if not adaptable.

At his side, he carried his rapier and longsword, both useful in their own right, but likely useless in this situation, especially if this spirit, this  _ god _ , was validated. He could endear himself to the forest deity, pledging himself to him and making sacrifices of his kingdom’s people to feed the prideful and lustful red-haired demon before him. However, that would most likely take an eternity, if not his whole life, to gain its trust and finally learn the secrets of immortality, perhaps even on his deathbed as one last cruel joke from the immortal jester.

The spirit’s ears perked and its bulbous head turned towards him, its eyes open and teeth widening in a cruel smile. Tom held his breath as the head tilted to the side, tightening his grip on his longsword. It played with the woman’s body, reaffirming its scent on her neck and wrists, all the while keeping its eyes on him, ensuring he was watching, understanding its claim over the omega.

Then, the two little nagas lunged at the spirit, wrapping themselves around its great gradient arms. Looking down, the amber-eyed male purred at them, rubbing their ears with his red-tipped nose and lowering his limbs so they could coil around the red-haired dog, the same dog that guarded the garden, Tom remembered belatedly. It leaned down, whispering a command to the dog, and then the rather large pup was darting off into the foggy woods, leaving he, the omega, and the spirit alone.

Tom turned back from where the dog hand vanished, coming face-to-face with the dangerous being. It belted out a slew of laughter and grabbed his neck, trailing its long, thorny fingers along his face and leaving sharp little cuts that bled his pitifully human blood.

“So, the little princeling wants an encore?” the spirit smirked darkly, donning the weak jester mask for just a moment before the fog grabbed ahold of his mind once again, turning everything around him into a hazy, churning pool. He felt  _ stuck _ , restrained somehow.

The spirit stepped back, striding back towards his mate, “As reigning deity over this land and all others, I accept your offering, Hermione, my priestess…”

Hermione moaned, trying and failing to contain her twitching hips as they lightly bumped his hand when it ran along her exposed abdomen, “Great Old One, I humbly request the seed of a great apple tree that will never cease to bear fruit, even in the driest of droughts. The heart of the King will nourish it…”

The spirit preened, “Very well,” he grinned eagerly, his body darkening and growing thorns that turned to branches. It’s feet dug into the earth, becoming one great trunk. The earth parted suddenly, swallowing the altar entirely, and leaving the keening omega wriggling like a worm, halfway submerged in the dirt with the spirit holding her to its trunk. Vines curled around her limbs, tying them up and thrusting them about, leaving her widely exposed while the great old one finished its transformation.

Omegan slick permeated the air, making Tom’s cock rise and bulge in his breeches. Hermione moaned as the vines tickled her sensitive areas and curled sinfully around her nipples and clit. The creature turned her around and she cried out at the feeling of its rough bark on her back. Her whisky eyes widened at the feeling of one large vine rubbing against her nether lips.

Teeth nipped at her abused neck, feeling more dull than before. She looked up, seeing apple-red irises and bright green leaves where red tufts had once been. The wooden man grinned, the crackling sound of firewood making her shudder as his bark shifted. His vines curled tighter, flicking impatiently at her skin.

“Please,” Hermione moaned, pursing her lips.

The priestess gasped as the spirit inched its large vine inside her, beginning to pump erratically. Her breasts bounced, vines milking her sweet droplets from her perked rosy nipples. It kissed her, inserting its blackened rough tongue into her mouth and letting her taste the sappy nectar from his. It tasted of syrup and berries and the forest itself, unbelievably addicting in a way that made birthing inhuman beings worth it.

“Yes, my priestess,” the spirit crooned with his rapid thrusts, “Taste my ambrosia… lose yourself in me and I will keep you safe, my mate…”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, opening her eyes widely and lapping at his lips.

The spirit widened its mouth to an impossible degree, unfurling like a flower in bloom as it showed her its heavenly light, its true form. In the back of its throat, three lights spun hypnotically, lulling her into a daze that amplified her pleasure. She cried out, drool dripping down her chin.

Blossoms attached to her chest like suction cups, beginning to milk her like a common cow. Hermione gaped at the feeling, arching her back in her first orgasm of the evening. Meanwhile, the spirit purred at her pleasure, rubbing its vines along her flanks. After a few broken thrusts, it spilled itself inside her. Dark inky seed flooded her womb, bonding with her unlimited eggs and creating a crossbreed to rival the apples of Idun.

Hermione laid against her mate, basking in the afterglow of their union, “Thank you, my alpha…” she prayed in his branch-like arms, kissing his rough skin until her lips bled.

“You will place my seed in the dead king's heart,” he interrupted her trembling words, “and, you shall depart with the princeling…”

“What?” Hermione froze, finally noticing Tom standing just at the edge of the clearing, “Great Old One! I only desire you!”

The spirit growled at her until she bowed her head submissively, “You shall bear the  _ half-siren _ prince’s pups. I’ve not seen one in eons, and when you bear your first omega, it shall be mine until you return to me. He is destined for an early grave as it is, and I’ll need another little one to raise.”

“Please! I don’t want to give up my child, and I don’t want to be apart from you. Who will give you offerings if not I?

“A child’s emotions are all that I need, and a little flowery omega will keep me fed for many years, long enough for you to fulfill your purpose and return to me, permanently.”

Hermione sat up at the last word, realizing what he was saying, “Permanently?”

“Yes, my mate,” the spirit crooned at her, “Soon, you shall join me in immortality as a forest goddess, and we shall rule this world before us. Until then, I will bide my time, waiting for my ‘little love’ to return to me, my little priestess… Sleep well, my Hermione...”

★★★

Tom certainly hoped the omegan peasant would conceive on his first try. It would be hard enough for most, if not the entire kingdom to accept their new king mating and breeding a healer’s (albeit the best healer in the land) son, but a child would stutter their tongues, give them viable proof of their bond, just as his own mother did with him.

Their minds had felt off about two months ago, Roman and the two boys stumbling out of the forest without even a single memory of what had occurred. Herman had no idea of what they’d been doing, or why’d he’d even dream of going into the forest. It was like his mind had been cleansed, cutting something out of it and leaving it blank. Tom had taken charge, immediately biting into the boy’s neck and knotting him up in Sir Granger’s garden to the absolute horror of the man himself, who’d first thought they were a couple of wolves trying to fight Roman.

Herman looked pretty in his wedding gown, just as he’d predicted, even as his belly had already began to swell with child. Watching from a secret alcove, he ached to milk and suck on the boy’s little perky nipples, drinking what their pup would in just a few months. Personally, he was hoping for an alpha, but Herman had told him that he was predicting that the child would be an omega.

His melodious voice carried into the room, making his bride’s large doe eyes glaze over as he gravitated over to him with light footsteps, “Are you ready, love?”

Herman smiled shyly, falling ever more in love with him with each syllable of his voice, “Yes, Tom,” a rebellious tear fell from his eyes and the younger male couldn’t understand why, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone so much in my whole life, and I’m most proud to be your mate.”


End file.
